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Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations

By the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson]
 

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THE OLD FOX-HUNTER.
 
 
 
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39

THE OLD FOX-HUNTER.

To some this rich and multifarious world
Is void without the chase: poor Reynard's scent
Is the prime smell beneath the firmament,
And all besides is into Limbo hurl'd;
To-day will be the first meet of the hounds;
The wind blows south, and, in the early dark,
The squire sits gazing o'er his dusky park,
While, in his ears, the horn already sounds;
Yon furzy levels harbour all his hopes,
No other field of glory ranks with them;
Fair Athens and divine Jerusalem
Are moving to the Dawn with Hunter's Copse,
And the Home-cover; but the squire ignores
All fame, that mounts not at his kennel-doors.